


My (favourite) ghost

by viagiordano



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/F, Moderate Adult Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-06-30 08:24:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15747957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viagiordano/pseuds/viagiordano
Summary: "If this is your life now, maybe you could stay for more than a bit? Maybe you could stay for, I don't know, a while?"(Or, the one in which Eve finally gets some answers to all those questions in that extravagant monologue of hers which left Villanelle completely moonstruck.)





	1. You tore the floorboards up (and let the river rush in)

**Author's Note:**

> Canon divergence in Paris.  
> Villanelle's backstory will mostly be based on _Codename Villanelle_ by Luke Jennings.  
>  I blame Florence + The Machine for making me write this, hence the fic and chapter title(s).  
> Special thanks to Kate/alicekittridge for having my back (and for being equally excited about this!).  
> -  
> The title of this chapter is from "The End of Love"--as someone who spent a summer in New York, it both spoke to me and inspired me. Thank you in advance for giving this work your time.

Fate is a curious thing. If someone were to ask Eve, she'd tell them that she's meant to catch Villanelle. She'd tell them that the stars are aligned, that every choice she'd made had brought her here, that it is her _destiny_ \- what a cliché - to find and arrest Villanelle, who's slowly tracing Eve's cheek with her pads; Villanelle, who looks so rough, yet radiates a sense of suspenseful peace. Eve doesn't know how else to describe it, for both of them are expecting something; Villanelle's expecting Eve to stay for a bit, to, possibly, sleep together after driving each other mad for months, and Eve's expecting herself to find the strength to release her inner righteous villain, to unleash her anger, her revenge, upon the woman next to her.

"Did you mean what you said?"

Villanelle has to mean Eve's big speech from before: the things she'd lost, the obsessive way she thinks about Villanelle day and night. "Yes", Eve rasps, leaving out that the whole point of her confession had been to disarm Villanelle. "Yes, I did", and immediately, Villanelle's gentle touch moves to Eve's arm, a single finger tracing the fabric of her cardigan, and then lower, and lower. Eve tenses up when Villanelle's fingers start searching for hers: her hand is hidden in her pocket, fingers tightly squeezed around the steel blade of a folding-knife, and Eve has to lift said knife, must force it into Villanelle's chest and end this long journey of hurt and agony.

"I meant what I said too", Villanelle whispers, hazel-green eyes hooded and focused, and Eve wants to scoff; oh, she _knows_ Villanelle had meant it, had been serious about thinking about Eve while touching herself. Right away, Eve's cheeks turn a little warm, and she shuts her eyes to keep herself from seeking out Villanelle's pretty ones. It's so brazen, Villanelle's confession. It's so blunt, so bold, had made Eve feel both embarrassed and flattered, but there's a plan in place - no room for detours or pauses - and Eve needs to be quick. Yet, her limbs are stuck in clay, Villanelle's touch rendering Eve defenseless in the exact same manner Eve had meant to damage Villanelle's armour by telling her just how _much_ Eve thinks about her, and this is all wrong, this is almost a disaster, already...

"I think you're beautiful", Villanelle breathes - an obvious opinion of hers, because why else would she think of Eve in that way? Villanelle's gaze lands on Eve's mouth as her hand wraps around Eve's hidden wrist, and then--then--Eve gathers what little strength she has left, pulls her hand out, knife and all, and Villanelle has to feel the steel because her eyes widen, her pupils dilate, and then her grip around Eve's hand tightens into a metal shackle, locking it in its place.

Eve doesn't try to pull free. Villanelle doesn't move. They spend a few moments - a few moments filled with terror, pride and uncertainty - simply staring at each other, seeing past the facades, looking behind the masks.

"Eve." It's as much her name as it is a reprimand of sorts; Villanelle's smiling confidently, but there's a glimpse of genuine surprise on her face, a glimpse that makes Eve's insides churn. Villanelle furrows her brow, silently asking Eve just what the _hell_ she thinks she's doing.

To be perfectly honest, now that the inevitable moment's finally here, Eve truly has no idea just what the hell she actually _is_ doing. There'd been bodies, there'd been Bill, and there'd been Niko, together with Eve's hot cheeks as Carolyn had scolded her, taken her job away from her, leaving Eve with close to nothing. There'd been all that, and somehow, all of that is Villanelle's fault, and Eve should fight, she should burn and rave and go to war against Villanelle's quiet charm, not fold gently, but Villanelle shuffles closer while keeping Eve's hand holding the knife very, very still.

"If you meant what you said like I meant what I said", Villanelle begins, and she's so close Eve feels her low breath, "then how exactly are you going to get me to answer all your questions, if you kill me? Will you go through my fridge to figure out what I have for breakfast?" No use, since there'd been nothing in it but champagne bottles, which are now only shards of glass and sticky fluid all around the bed. Wasted. "Will you trash my place even more so that you can find what you're looking for?" Villanelle frees the arm she'd been resting her own head on and lets its fingers lift Eve's chin so that they're eye to eye. "If you kill me, how will you know what I feel when I kill someone?" She blinks. "Or is this about you wanting to know what you would feel if _you_ killed someone? Me, for example?"

"I wouldn't kill anyone else." The words fly out of her mouth, raw and dangerous, exactly how she wants to feel, how she wants Villanelle to perceive her. "I'd only kill you."

Villanelle quirks an eyebrow, smiling ferociously. She must be enjoying herself. "And how do you think you would feel then? Hm?"

"Like you deserved it." Like Eve had done what she'd had to do. "Strong. Powerful." She gulps, meeting Villanelle's eyes. Her heart is beating so loudly, she swears Villanelle can hear it, swears she can feel it under the skin and tendons of Eve's wrist. "Satisfied. I'd feel alive." Eve closes her eyes, searches her thoughts. To lie now would be to let herself down, and the fingers of Villanelle's right hand are in her hair, combing through it, getting tangled. "Empty", Eve croaks. Oh, God. "I'd feel so empty once--once I'd go back. You've been--everything I've done has been because of you." Eve opens her eyes, and Villanelle is so close their lips will brush if she leans even an inch forward. "Everything's about you, Oksana."

It has to be the ultimate compliment: Villanelle's eyes light up like lanterns, a smug smile grinning back at Eve. Oh, she must love the attention, must love being the center of Eve's tiny universe where everything revolves around the young woman who thinks herself unbeatable, invincible, immortal.

But she _isn't_ immortal, and Eve _is_ still tired; tired from running away from her husband, tired from running after Villanelle, tired from running a thousand miles just to end up in a bed too soft, to end up with an arm too weak and too slow, to end up second-guessing the decision she thought she'd already made, the decision she'd thought she was going to stick to. The rustling bedspread underneath their bodies might as well be the physical equivalent of Eve's intricate thoughts; all that's left swimming around in her brain is Villanelle, Villanelle, Villanelle, who interrupts her pondering by asking, "Did you really lose two jobs and your husband because of me?"

Eve sighs, "Yes." She knows her own impulsive actions had led to that carnage, but the stars must have been aligned, her fate decided, taking all responsibility away from her, and therefore, she really feels like it's no one's but Villanelle's fault. "Thanks for that", she adds sarcastically, aware that Villanelle's still touching her hair, still gripping her wrist. Her remark doesn't go unnoticed: Villanelle purses her lips, and then she leans forward, breath ghosting over Eve's mouth.

"If that's your life now", Villanelle murmurs, and Eve inhales the scent of her breath, "maybe you could stay for more than a bit?" There's an undertone in Villanelle's voice; she isn't just suggestive - she's hopeful, and it fills Eve up, makes butterflies flap their wings around her lungs, makes them compromise her respiratory system. Her breath has stopped in her throat. "Maybe you could stay for, I don't know, a while? A few days?" She interlaces her fingers with Eve's gripping the folding-knife. "You might get an answer to at least some of the things you wonder about."

It's a ridiculous idea. Eve finally lets out a breath, sees Villanelle's nostrils flare. Neither one has probably used a toothbrush since early morning, Eve's breath has to stink of alcohol, and oh, it's such an utterly dumb idea... but it's tempting, so, so tempting. Isn't that what Eve had wanted all along? Hadn't she been looking for a way into Villanelle's mind? Didn't she want to stroll around through Villanelle's frontal lobe, her cerebral cortex, her grey matter? Didn't she want to crawl inside of Villanelle's spinal cord, wrap herself up in her nerves, take over all motor control of her body, go deeper than anyone had ever been before?

Now that the moment's gone, Eve knows she won't be able to plunge the knife through Villanelle's chest: the anger has started to subside, making room for something else, something... something like warmth.

It has to be the close proximity playing tricks on her, so glancing at Villanelle's parted lips, so close it almost hurts to look down, she declares, "I don't want to sleep with you."

Villanelle bursts out laughing; a real laugh, not a mocking one. "Oh, bullshit." She starts to loosen Eve's fingers, starts to pull the handle of the knife away. "But okay, that's fine." She narrows her eyes, has the nerve to look offended. "I have survived for this long. Maybe if I tell you things, you'll give me some new material for my fantasies."

This time, it's Eve who cracks up, and she has to pull back, otherwise her shaking body will push her right into Villanelle. With just a little reluctance, she lets Villanelle take the knife away, and she knows it won't be turned against her, won't sink into her. Villanelle's always bold when she's being honest, and negotiating material for masturbation is nothing if not bold. She's not going to hurt Eve. She's never wanted to hurt Eve, even though she could have done so several times by now. "I'll have to get back to you on that", Eve mutters, feeling light for the first time in ages. "Don't hold your breath."

"I would never", Villanelle teases. As she puts the knife down by the bed, next to the gun, Eve wonders if someone had taught her that response, or if she'd read it in some book about English expressions, or if she'd heard it on the radio, or seen it in a television series. There are so many questions already, and more keep showing up. "But I have to point out that this bed is the only safe place in this apartment right now, thanks to you, Eve. Do you happen to know the number for a good cleaning service?"

Villanelle's right about the bed: the apartment looks like a bomb had gone off. It had felt symbolic to walk into what might as well have been Villanelle's head, for the apartment had been scattered with expensive designer clothing, random artifacts, things she must have picked up during her travels; things that made up _Villanelle the assassin._ It had felt victorious to finally be the intruder, to finally wreck Villanelle's safe space, but now Eve's cheeks are scalding hot, and she hides her eyes. "I'm--I don't know what happened. It's such a mess."

"Yeah." Villanelle sighs, and turns onto her back, giving Eve some room. "Russia was shit. I was really looking forward to finally having a bath. Did you trash the bathroom too?"

"No", Eve chuckles. She'd left the bathroom alone, but the kitchen, the living room and the bedroom are a catastrophe. "Go take your bath."

Villanelle sits up, throws her legs over the edge of the bed. Something breaks underneath her shoes, making Eve wince. "Oops. I think we need to make this a priority."

Eve's priority is calling Elena and updating her on the process of things. Eve won't tell her about any of this; she'll report that the apartment had been someone else's, that she's staying in Paris to find Villanelle - on her own, and she'll swear Elena the secrecy. Once that's taken care of, she'll shut her phone off and dig out her sim-card. In her current state of limbo, she can allow herself to enjoy a few days of peace and quiet - warranting that such things are possible in the company of Villanelle. "I'll clean." Eve turns onto her back, too. "My tantrum, my mess, my fault." She can't take responsibility for much, but _this_ she can admit to be on her. "Enjoy your bath in that ridiculous tub of yours."

"And you won't call the police?"

"No", Eve says softly, and she means it. "I promise."

Villanelle gets up, stretches like a cat. Her salmon coloured sweater rides up, revealing her pale lower back. Eve looks away. "Do you want to join me?"

"God, I hate you", Eve sighs, hiding her face again. One bathtub-incident was enough. "Oh, this whole thing is so stupid."

Villanelle's boots make some more noise as she proceeds further away from Eve, presumably towards the bathroom. "No, you don't, and no, it's not", she calls out over her shoulder, and then Eve hears a door slam shut.

Eve had made a lot of stupid decisions since that hungover Saturday morning when she'd seen the crime scene photos of Viktor Kedrin and Villanelle's neat cut to his femoral artery. A lot of things had deviated from their assigned paths, and Eve had taken several wrong turns. She'd burnt things in her wake: trust, loyalty, love. She'd made mistakes due to her compulsive need to find Villanelle, and now that she has her, now that she's in the next room, probably stripping out of her clothes and filling her extravagant bathtub with warm water, Eve thinks that this, this idea to stick around for a while, might not be such a bad idea at all. 


	2. The monster has loved you (for longer than anyone else)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the lovely feedback on chapter 1, I appreciate it so much!  
> The title of this chapter comes from the poem "Monster" by Florence Welsh; said poem can be found in the collection called "Useless Magic: Lyrics and Poetry". Special thanks to Kate/alicekittridge for helping me with the title of this second chapter.

Regardless of the absurd goldfish-faucets, Villanelle's bathtub really is wonderful. Eve leans her head back against the edge, cranes her neck from side to side, hears the knots next to her spine popping. Her neck and upper back muscles are tenser than they've probably ever been; staying was one thing, but when it came to actually sleeping in Villanelle's apartment, Eve had chosen the brown leather couch, and Villanelle hadn't offered her the bed without an actual Villanelle in it. It was understandable: Villanelle had spent two days at the women's penitentiary in Moscow, and cleaning the apartment had taken hours. She'd been in need of good rest, and now that Eve had slept on the couch, she understands perfectly well why Villanelle had wanted the bed. Still, if one were to weigh pros and cons, neck pains were hands down a way better alternative than accidentally rolling over and cuddling up next to Villanelle.

The water feels nice, might help with the tension. When Eve had woken up this morning, for a total of two seconds, she'd been completely oblivious to yesterday's choice. Once remembering where she was, she'd sat bolt upright, felt horrified, felt both insane and disappointed in herself, until the smell of eggs and butter had reached her nostrils; behind her head, in the kitchen nook, Villanelle, dressed in some metallic, shimmering multi-coloured pajama-thing, had been making breakfast; actual, honest-to-God English breakfast, an image which would be burnt into Eve's corneas for the rest of her life.

Yesterday, Eve'd had a plan, but yesterday had come and gone, and today held a whole new arsenal of possibilities. There are several things she wants to ask. There's a hundred questions which need answers. There's so much on her mind, she has no idea where to begin, and it's keeping her from enjoying this quiet moment, stopping her from enjoying the warmth of the bathwater, the various fragrance scents lingering in the room, the--

The bathroom door opens - Eve could _swear_ she locked it - and she wraps her arms around herself beneath the surface, makes herself into a tiny ball, before the anger comes in the form of a boiling wave. "Jesus, Oksana", she hisses when Villanelle walks over to the windowsill, which is covered with numerous bottles of shampoos, conditioners, lotions, perfumes. "Knock much?"

"I just need one thing", Villanelle mutters, crouching a bit, scanning the collection of bottles intently. "Ah." She wraps her fingers around an expensive looking flask - not _La Villanelle_ \- and turns to Eve, whose head is the only thing above the surface. "Oh dear. Don't drown yourself over me." She moves as if to leave, then stops, eyes travelling over where the rest of Eve's body is hidden beneath a layer of bubbles. "It's not like I haven't seen it before."

Eve bites back a curse. Villanelle means the evening at Eve's house, when she'd stripped Eve out of the expensive dress she'd bought and then placed into Eve's stolen suitcase. "That wasn't particularly fun, you know." Eve moves up a bit so that she can lay her head down again. "I know you had fun, but I didn't. I was terrified. You...", she trails off, closes her eyes. Logic would tell her there's no point in trying to make a psychopath feel bad, so she says nothing more, but the room stays silent. There are no footsteps, no sounds of Villanelle retreating, and when Eve opens her eyes, Villanelle is still there, standing like a statue cut from marble, unmoving.

"I didn't mean to hurt you."

Eve moves to sit up more, splashing water onto the floor. There are no crocodile tears on Villanelle's cheeks this time: her bruised forehead is in a frown, eyes clear, mouth in a tight line. She shrugs, bites her bottom lip and mumbles, "I'm buying you an ice cream when you're done. Hurry up." Then she turns on her heel, shuts the door behind her, leaves Eve feeling even more perplexed than before.

 

***

 

The park near Porte de Passy is a wonderful place to have ice cream, according to Villanelle, and while Eve thinks it's a little cold outside to enjoy a cone of _glace,_ she indulges Villanelle, for what else can she do? She's in Villanelle's city as Villanelle's guest, she supposes, and while they currently seem to be on terms which could quite easily be labelled as "friendly", Eve doesn't know anything fundamental about Villanelle's mood; she could get angry if Eve didn't agree that strawberry shortcake is the best ice cream flavour ever made.

"Ugh, I _hate_ strawberry shortcake", Villanelle mutters while she looks over the selection of flavours, and next to her, Eve is two seconds away from face-palming herself. How something can be equally a fantasy and a nightmare, she'll never know, and Villanelle proceeds to order two cones of lemon-licorice ice cream - a combination Eve really dislikes.

"What do you do when you're not, you know, assassinating people?" God, it sounds so stupid coming out of Eve's mouth when it's the middle of the day and they're in a park with actual people. She slowly works on her ice cream, contemplates whether or not she should comment on the taste of it, but Villanelle had paid, so it would be perceived as rude - and not just by a psychopath.

"I run." Villanelle's licking the ice cream counterclockwise, and Eve can't help but look, can't help but study the movement of her tongue, the tendons in her neck, the colour of her lips, the nearly invisible creases at the corners of her mouth, the way her throat bobs when she swallows. The ice cream will travel down her esophagus, the pepsin enzyme and the gastric acid will digest it and form new proteins out of it, precisely like Eve's body does, and why does she keep forgetting that Villanelle's _human?_ "I work out. I go out with friends, or, well, acquaintances. I like to drive. Do you ever think about me when you masturbate?"

Eve stops dead in her tracks, eyes wide. She looks at Villanelle, expecting to see a malicious grin, but Villanelle's face is expressionless. "What? No, God--of course not. Come on." Her cheeks are hot, even in the cool wind. They pass Lac Supérieur, and Eve bites back the urge to point out that she hasn't masturbated about Villanelle for _obvious_ reasons, one of them being the horrible fact that Villanelle had killed Eve's best friend. She dismisses the subject, asks,"What's your favourite drink?"

"A cocktail made from the tears of my targets", Villanelle replies with a shrug, back to eating her ice cream, and it's such a tasteless answer, Eve stops abruptly - again. She pins Villanelle with her stare, wills her to stop walking, and she faces Eve. "I don't have a favourite. What I like depends on what I eat. Champagne is always nice, but sometimes I want apple juice, sometimes I want Limoncello. Have you _really_ never touched yourself while thinking about me?"

"Oh, God, give me strength." They're doing what they'd half-agreed to do, yesterday - asking questions and getting answers - but Eve's growing restless, and the ice cream is melting, running down over her fingers. "No, okay? I've never done what you've done a lot, if I remember your words correctly. Jesus." They walk in uncomfortable silence, Villanelle working on her ice cream with slow strokes of her tongue, Eve scanning the grounds for a garbage bin, fingers sticky and cold. When they pass Cirque Alexis Gruss, Eve finally asks, "What _do_ you feel when you kill someone?"

Villanelle glances at Eve as she slurps up a huge chunk of her ice cream. Half of it ends up around her mouth, and she licks it away. "That depends on the way I do it. I like to draw it out, you know?" No, Eve _doesn't_ know. "I like knives more than guns, I like to get really up close and personal." She grins at that, like it's a joke of sorts. "I like watching them when they die, when they _know_ they're going to die. I like the way their eyes look. I think the soul shrinks, gets very small." She pauses to eat some more, and Eve gawks. "As for how it feels...I can't really describe that. Maybe like an excellent orgasm, one that makes you shake and scream, but not quite. Um, it's somewhere between an orgasm and being high, I guess. It's a physical sensation, if it's a really satisfying kill. And then sometimes, it doesn't feel like anything, and that's _super_ boring. A waste of time."

Eve had imagined something completely different; she'd imagined Villanelle would use terms of power and domination while describing her emotions, and of course there's power in taking a life, but as far as the feeling being a concrete, measurable physical rush - an actual eruption of serotonin coursing through Villanelle's bloodstream, travelling through the complex body of hers - Eve hadn't expected it at all. "Oh", is all she manages to say, feeling like she's in a daze. Her palm is now completely covered in melted ice cream.

"I could write a magnificent book", Villanelle continues, apparently oblivious to Eve's slightly shocked state of mind, "but I'm too impatient. I would start it and write for like a day, and then I would let it be."

Eve snaps out of her trance. Villanelle's _sharing,_ and she needs to focus. "Are you saying you have issues with commitment?" Like that much isn't obvious, Eve thinks to herself.

"Ah, I was wondering when that psychology you studied would show its face."

"Okay, what the hell?" Before Eve knows what her body's doing, she's reached out and grabbed Villanelle by the elbow. It's the first time Eve initiates the touch. "Do you have a file on me, or something? Is there anything about me that you _don't_ know?"

Villanelle glances down at Eve's hand squeezing her arm. "I don't know if you've ever thought about me in the same way I have thought about you."

Eve lets go like she'd been burnt, takes a step back to gather her thoughts. Psychology can't help her here: no, she'd never touched herself while imagining Villanelle, had never even thought about doing that, but before Bill had died, Eve had recalled Villanelle's face over and over in her head, thought about her skin, her cheekbones, her eyes, her lips, her height, her breasts, and after--even _after,_ she'd thought about the strength in Villanelle's body, remembered it pressed up against hers; on her, in the tub. She'd thought about Villanelle's burning gaze, her parted lips, soft hands, an unmistakable walk, the meaning of breaking a heart, the cut on her upper lip--"I need to wash my hands", Eve croaks, looking around. There's a cafe down the path.

"I have thought many things about you, Eve." Villanelle studies her intently. "But I never thought you were the kind of woman who couldn't be honest about what she wants. It's a little disappointing." Her eyes land on Eve's melted ice cream and sticky hand. She nods her head towards the cafe, starts walking, doesn't check to see if Eve's following her.

"Yes", Eve gulps, so silently Villanelle can't possibly have heard her, but she must have, because she turns around, and while Eve really doesn't want to give her the pleasure of being right, hell will freeze over before Eve lies about who she is and what she wants. She'd spent years feeling both bored and trapped, and with the rebellion, with the fight against old comfort and society's rules, had come the promise _not_ to hide her drives and desires anymore, so she straightens her spine, but doesn't look Villanelle in the eye. Honesty can still feel shameful, and she walks past Villanelle, mutters, "Yes, fine, you asshole, I've thought about you", as she passes her. "Are you happy now?" 

Villanelle skitters up to her like an overzealous cheerleader. "Very much. Thank you, Eve." She has to look so smug, so pleased that she'd been right; Eve keeps her eyes tightly on the pathway, but then Villanelle's warm hand is lacing its fingers with Eve's cold ones, and this time, instead of burning, her touch feels strangely solid, but if Villanelle utters one more word about masturbation or dirty thoughts, Eve will channel all of her physical strength to her left hand and break each and every one of Villanelle's slender fingers. She swears she will, and Villanelle must sense that, because for the rest of their walk to the cafe, she holds Eve's hand, but stays quiet.


	3. No more dreaming like a girl (so in love with the wrong world)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for the lovely feedback on this story! This chapter is slightly less light-hearted, but nevertheless, I hope you'll enjoy it, even though personally I'm not 100% happy with it (but who ever is?). The title of this chapter is from the song "Blinding" by Florence + The Machine.

Villanelle's confession about wanting 'someone to watch movies with' had apparently been the God's honest truth: Eve observes her imitating known characters, quoting different films, making random observations about iconic scenes which everyone alive in the 21st century should know by heart. On the second morning, Eve's up first, putting together a fruit salad, and when she hands a sleepy Villanelle a cup of cut apricots, mangoes and strawberries, Villanelle quirks an eyebrow and says, "Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship." Casablanca, 1942; Eve rolls her eyes, can't resist, mutters, "You're a strange contract killer", to which Villanelle says nothing, but picks up a strawberry, then dramatically bites into it, clearly imitating a vampire biting down on someone's throat.

"Where have you even seen all these movies?" Confused, Eve glances around the apartment while eating her breakfast with an actual fork. Somehow, she has trouble picturing Villanelle at the _Gaumont Pathe,_ munching on popcorn, gabbing at the silver screen, annoying the hell out of everyone around--no, suddenly Eve can picture it all too clearly, but still, she adds, "You don't even own a TV."

Villanelle, chin wet from strawberry juice, gives her a knowing smile; naturally, two hours later, the doorbell rings, and Villanelle lets in two hefty men who are carrying a packaged 75" 4k Premium UHD flat-screen television. As they undo the cardboard packaging and carefully unwrap the expensive thing, Villanelle crosses her arms over her chest and raises her eyebrows at Eve, who chuckles under her breath, shakes her head, _can't_ believe this woman, and asks, "If I tell you that you don't own the Eiffel tower, will your inner twelve-year old tell you that you have to buy one of those too?"

Villanelle gives Eve the middle finger and proceeds to make some room for her newest purchase.

 

***

 

Villanelle's new handler turns up unexpectedly, and with surprising force, she ushers Eve into the bedroom, and then tells her to hide under the bed. Panicking, Eve decides she really doesn't have a say in the matter - if she wants to live - so she agrees, slips into the small space between the floor and the underside of the bed, its edges covered by the silky bedspread. Heart pounding rapidly, ears almost clogged with the rush of her own beat, she holds her breath and listens as intently as she can.

Villanelle and a man she can't see exchange fake pleasantries. There's a mention of Konstantin, a comment on Villanelle's bruised face, something that sounds like scolding, which makes Eve squeeze her eyes shut because _scolding_ Villanelle must be one of the worst ideas in the history of bad ideas. The man makes a remark about Villanelle's mistake of killing Anton (who the hell is that?), then there's shuffling, Villanelle sounding like she's pouting like a five-year-old, then footsteps, and finally, the front door opening and closing.

"You can come out now."

Eve finally allows herself to cough her lungs out; the amount of dust under the bed has to be the largest one she's ever encountered. She slides out, feeling - and looking - like she's walked through a storm of flour, and when she shakes her hair out, large puffs of grey clouds float around her head, then come to rest on the floor. After sneezing four times in a row and wiping her nose, she glares at Villanelle, who's standing five feet from her and wearing a look of utter delight. Eve scoffs, shrugs her arms to get the rest of the dust out. She wants to ask about Anton, wants to know the name of Villanelle's new handler, wants to know whether or not she's going to be sent on her next assignment soon, but first, she needs a shower and a change of clothes. "Asshole", she mutters.

"You should see yourself", Villanelle giggles, and it's a real, genuine laugh, bubbling up from inside of her, not a mocking snicker. Her shoulders quiver and her chest heaves, eyes bright and glistening as she points at Eve's dark jeans, which are now a light shade of grey. "I told you I needed to call a cleaning service. We should have been more thorough after you trashed this place."

"Asshole", Eve repeats, and stomps to the bathroom, trailing dust as she walks.

"Use my robe", Villanelle calls out after her just as she's about to shut the bathroom door and make sure that this time, it is _locked._ "When you're done, we will watch a movie."

True to her word, when Eve exits the bathroom wearing a terry-cloth robe which is just a little too large for her body, Villanelle's resting on the bed, hands behind her head, ankles crossed, looking as relaxed as ever. Next to her, there's a bag of crisps, and the bedroom drapes are closed. Eve frowns, then realizes Villanelle's new in-home cinema is currently resting on the vanity table across from the bed; apparently, they're supposed to watch a movie together, in a dark room, in bed, while Eve's in a bathrobe.

Bed. Bathrobe.

"Can I borrow something else from you?" Eve's own clothes are in the wash. "My stuff's still in the machine, I'm sure you have something that would--"

"Nope", Villanelle declares, patting the empty space next to her. "Get in here, I'm excited to try this. There's an integrated rental system, how cool is that?"

"Are the Twelve paying for your movies?"

Villanelle narrows her eyes, flashing her crocodile-smile. "Nice try, Eve. Get in."

‘Get in’, as in get in bed - with Villanelle. Eve fidgets where she stands, the hairs on her arms suddenly prickled, her chest tight, lungs heavy with something that isn't dust. Frustrated, she looks around, tries to decide if she could sit someplace else - someplace that _isn't_ right next to Villanelle - but she can’t, and Villanelle's beginning to look very impatient, so with a deep, dramatic sigh, Eve, barefoot, walks over to the bed, rearranges some of the pillows, then timidly sits down. They're on the opposite sides, this time, literally - and figuratively, in some way. "Tarantino?" she asks when she sees the title Villanelle's chosen. "You're serious?"

"What?" One hand on the remote, Villanelle presses play. "I like this movie."

"Oh my God, you're so vain I can't even...", Eve covers her eyes with one hand, but can't stop herself from grinning, can't help but chuckle a little herself, too, because _of course_ Villanelle likes gory, violent movies with a twist of dark humour _; of course_ she likes movies of actual assassins; _of course_ she likes movies where the woman who's doing all the killing is considered the protagonist, the hero, the good guy; _of course_ she likes all of that, and she really is so, so vain. "I suppose you own a yellow leather jumpsuit?" Eve asks when a black-and-white, wounded, panting and panicking Uma Thurman gets shot in the head by the man she claims is the father of her baby.

"Ssh", Villanelle hisses, and flaps her hand, like Eve's a mosquito to be shooed away. She opens the bag of crisps. "That doesn't come until later. Don't spoil this."

Eve doesn't know how she could technically 'spoil' a movie which Villanelle has, obviously, already seen, but she stays quiet all the same, keeps her eyes on the television screen, chuckles at the right times, whispers, "Yikes", when Uma slices the male nurse's Achilles tendon and crushes his head between the door-frame and the door. Villanelle laughs at the most random scenes, munches on her snack, gestures at the screen whenever she thinks something's funny, keeps looking over at Eve, presumably to make sure she's still watching, and she is, but she's also acutely aware of Villanelle's proximity, of her nearness, how there's nothing but a few inches between her robed form and Villanelle's clothed one. Sitting here, studying Villanelle's expressions and reactions in silence, is a great opportunity to gather more pieces of the puzzle, but Eve’s eyes wander, steal a glance at Villanelle's slender neck illuminated by the bright light from the television, and suddenly, Eve’s parting her lips and whispering, "Which character would you be?"

"None of them", Villanelle frowns, eyes wide and round as she meets Eve's gaze, like she's offended by the mere thought. Her mouth is full of crisps, and her voice comes out both shrill and muffled. "Teamwork is bullshit. Always go rogue, like she's doing." Villanelle gestures at Uma. "But I wouldn't be her. I wouldn't be stupid enough to get shot in the head during--" She starts giggling again, and holds a hand to her mouth, "--during a wedding rehearsal. That is so funny." Her eyes become mesmerizingly dim from her withheld laughter, which slowly dies down, and she returns her attention to the movie, but after a while, she reaches out, seeks Eve's hand, takes it in her own, and sets both of their hands in her lap, next to the crisps. Like yesterday, her touch is warm and solid, but it isn't heat that spreads through Eve's body; it's a wave of fireflies, but they don't light her up from the inside out: they darken her, make her anxious and confused, and she struggles not to pull her hand away, knowing it would most likely upset Villanelle.

"You'd be Gogo", Eve, to distract herself, blurts out when Lucy Liu's 17-year-old bodyguard viciously disembowels a business-man at a bar. "Ruthless, crazy, completely unpredictable, but with a sense of style." She makes sure to keep her voice light, to let Villanelle know she's half-kidding, even though she isn't entirely sure if she really is doing that, but when she dares throw a look in Villanelle's direction, her face is hard and closed, not one trace of amusement in her eyes.

"That's rude", Villanelle says sternly and lets go of Eve's hand.

The loss of Villanelle’s touch feels like a limb being ripped off, and Eve, in confusion and protest, scoffs, "She's a good character!"

Villanelle rolls her eyes, then gives Eve a very condescending look. "So, what, you think I’m a character?”

"Oh, why do you have to be so--" Eve cuts herself off, mildly annoyed now; what's the point in watching a movie together, if she can't make any of her thoughts on it known? "Yeah, yeah, that’s exactly what I meant. See, I've always had a feeling this assassin part of you is actually just a mask." She doesn’t quite mean it, should stop talking, because now, Villanelle's face has gone cold, but she can't keep her mouth shut, can't help but lash out a little. It's a curse. "You pretend to be so ooh and cool and icy and composed, but your colours are showing. Your--God--your _jokes_ are a such an obvious defense mechanism, _Oksana._ I ask you why you chopped off Anna's husband's dick and you ask about my _shirt?_ Come on. You might get off on slitting throats, but you're not all that. There's another level to everyone, even you. You just don't want anyone to see it." But _Eve_ wants to see it. She exhales, but barely has time to draw a proper breath before Villanelle's wrapped her fingers around her wrist, hard, and pulled her in, face to face, dangerously close. Without looking away, her other hand reaches for the remote, finds it, and pauses the movie. Eve's throat clogs up like she's just swallowed a porcupine. Suddenly, her whole perspective shifts completely; she's in Paris, with a known psychopath, who _kills_ people for money, and if said psychopath can do that, then she'll have no problem doing it just because Eve crossed a line and--

"Since you seem to be in the mood to play shrink", Villanelle begins, her voice impossibly low, almost vibrating, "how about you tell me what you thought about?"

Eve gulps; yesterday, Villanelle had left the subject alone, and Eve had known it would eventually come up again, but not like _this;_ not with Villanelle so close Eve can smell her, not with a grip so painful on her wrist, not with her all but naked underneath a robe that's slowly slipping from her shoulder. Her stomach flips, and she tries to pull away, but Villanelle's hand is like iron. "I-I don't...", she tries, but all words fail her. She looks away, over Villanelle's shoulder, at the dark Calypso portrait on the mantelpiece. She feels exactly how the woman in the picture looks: she's slipping from the bed, losing her footing, unable to do anything about it. "Oksana."

"Are you ashamed?" Villanelle asks, breath hot on Eve's face, and oh, her words hit her right in the gut because _of course_ she's ashamed; any normal person would be. Her chest feels too tight, her heart beating way too fast. Villanelle continues, voice teasing but serious, like she won't take no for an answer. "You're so bold, so brave to come here and find me, to stay with me, but you can't say your thoughts out loud? You're too proper, is that it? Or are you afraid of what I'll say if you tell me?" Villanelle's gaze zeroes in on Eve's parted lips. "Are you afraid what I might do?" Villanelle’s mouth stays open, and Eve wants to get away, wants to run, wants to be in a place where she isn't in imminent danger, where her thoughts are her own and nobody's picking into her brain, like _she_ keeps doing with Villanelle's, and-- "Are you afraid what _you_ might do, if you tell me what you've imagined?"

"Oksana, stop." Eve's cheeks are burning, aflame from the shame, the self-loathing, the fact that she had indeed thought about Villanelle that way; she'd thought about what she might like, what kind of people she was attracted to, if she wanted both men and women or one more than the other, if everyone had to have hair that could proudly be worn down, if she was sensitive, if she liked to talk while... "Look, I'm sorry I've been asking so much. I'm sorry if you've felt like I've, I don't know, intruded, or something. I just--I have a lot I want to know, a lot of stuff I've thought about, not just... _that_ kind of stuff, and the other stuff--it interests me more. But I'll try not to bombard you, okay? I'm sorry. You can let go now." She hopes her tactic will work; she hopes turning the tables - apologizing - will make Villanelle back down.

Naturally, no such luck. "You're a pussy", Villanelle grins, all teeth.

_Oh._ Eve inhales, bites her lower lip because one, no one calls her that, and two, she's not going to give this asshole the satisfaction of thinking she’s won this round. Eve doesn't care if Villanelle had chosen those exact words out of pure manipulation, or if she really thinks so. The reason doesn’t matter; she'd chosen well, because suddenly, Eve can't stop herself - again, and she pulls her arm back, twists it loose from Villanelle's grip. "I thought about what it would take to shut you up", she hisses, and Villanelle's eyes come alive. Eve swallows, then, "I thought about--what you like. I thought about who you like. I thought about what you and Anna--" Villanelle eyes go from alive to surprised, "--did together, because it's so obvious she was lying to me, so I know you had something, well, I don't know what, but obviously something that wasn't totally innocent. I thought about... your skin, your lips, their form. I thought about how you'd..." She trails off, because no, she can't say _that._

Villanelle still looks like she's two seconds away from breaking Eve's neck, but she sits stiffly, makes no move to attack Eve, pale cheeks a little pink, breathing a little laboured. "What?" She licks her lips quickly. "You thought what?"

Right then, Eve realizes that she had in fact pulled her arm free. She can walk away. "We're done with this." She gets up, half-expecting Villanelle to pounce and pull her back in.

"You thought about us in bed."

Eve stops by the side of the bed, eyes on the ground, a jolt of ice flashing through her body, from neck to feet. Those words, in that context, on Villanelle's lips, had made her lose her breath.

"You thought about it after I came to your house. You thought about what I'd do to you, if you let me." A pause, during which Eve grits her teeth, swears she's about to sink through the floor. When Villanelle continues, her voice is surprisingly soft. "You wondered what it would be like, if I hadn't killed your friend, and you didn't have to pretend you hate me."

_Yes._

Without looking over her shoulder, Eve walks out of the bedroom, kicks the double doors shut in a fit of rage and humiliation, and proceeds out to the balcony. Even over the traffic noise from the street below, she can hear the movie resuming behind the closed bedroom doors, and as she tries not to feel disappointed in Villanelle for not following her, while she tries to extinguish the flames licking the inside of her chest, burning her ribs to ashes, she tells herself that she's better off out here; she's better off above the streets of Paris, where the cool air makes her shiver so much her teeth are about to start clattering; she's better off anywhere that isn't Villanelle's dark, cozy bedroom.

She's better off anywhere _without_ Villanelle, who'd spoken nothing but the truth. Eve looks out over the busy city, wondering why everything – _everything_ – suddenly feels so heavy.

**Author's Note:**

> I sincerely hope you enjoyed this. Many thanks - D.


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